She thought back to the day, a couple of weeks ago, when she had made the first official crossing of the bridge in a vehicle. Once the roadway was complete, she had ridden in their brand-new Victoria to test the bridge. Again the honor had gone to her to be first—first for her and first for her husband. It had not been President Arthur, or Governor Cleveland, or any other of the high and mighty, it had been Emily. Countless millions of others would pass over the river in the years to come, but only one was first. For as long as the bridge would stand, the name of Roebling would always be first. She had carried a rooster as a symbol of victory. It sat calmly in her lap as she crossed, its black eyes giving no clue to what it might have felt. It had been a landmark day for her and though there was still much to do at that point, the main work of the bridge was behind them. Tom’s friend Sam had been right, Emily thought to herself. This was a kind of immortality. She had always had a sense of the importance of what she and Wash were doing, but she hadn’t thought of it quite that way before. Now that the end was near and the final reality of what they had accomplished was seeping in, she began to see it that way too.
In a way it was better than being president of the United States. Presidents were elected and unelected. Rarely did they last more than four years. The bridge would still be there spanning the river when fifty presidents had passed into history. Only one name would ever be tied to it, one name but three people: one dead, one disabled, one triumphant, Roeblings all.
It had been their first major setback—that is, if they didn’t count the whole Bucklin affair a setback. Nothing Matt had said to his foreman, no argument he’d used, had shown even the slightest chance of bending the U.S. Illuminating Company or anyone on the engineering staff to their plan.
“Just get back to work, Emmons,” his foreman had told him roughly after his third try at convincing him of the need for extra wire. “Keep your fool ideas to yourself. Got a contract here. Ain’t no altering it. Just do what you’re told an’ keep your pie-hole shut.”
“What the hell we gonna do?” he’d whispered to Earl when he’d gone back to work. “Can’t even get the man to hear me out.”
Earl shrugged. “Best get crackin’.” He nodded in the foreman’s direction “He’s watchin’.”
Other attempts at catching the ear of anyone in authority had proven no more fruitful. The captain had shouted, slamming his fist onto his desk, ranting for a good ten minutes when he learned of the stone wall they’d run into. The next meeting had been taken up with nothing else. Ideas flew like snow in February, most of them with little more substance than a snowflake. Different methods, different arguments, different people to approach had been agreed upon, but to no avail. Everyone they talked to rejected the idea. Matt and Earl knew they’d have to give it up or risk drawing too much attention. It wouldn’t do to have their motives questioned, especially when there appeared no chance of success. The roadblock had set off a virtual panic in the group. No one wanted to take the risk of running hundreds of yards of wire at night once the bridge was open for traffic. What they finally agreed upon pleased none of them and was risky as hell. But none of them could come up with anything better. No one was about to volunteer to detonate the charges from out on the bridge either. Suicide was not in anyone’s plan.
While the wiring crisis had thrown them an unexpected curve, other elements were proceeding exactly as hoped. The Rendrock Powder Company, of 240 Broadway, had delivered the crates this morning. They sat in the small warehouse that the captain rented for Dunn & Scrivner’s use. Everything they needed was there: Rackarock blasting powder, basically dynamite with some small variations in ingredients, packed into foot-long red tubes about an inch in diameter; detonator caps; wire; the plunger-style dynamo that supplied the electrical charge; and various other necessary items. The captain was pleased that they had been able to find an explosives manufacturer close by. It simplified matters and reduced expenses. A stack of smaller boxes held slabs of artist’s clay: big, moldable, sticky bricks of it perfect for forming around odd-shaped surfaces. Over the next week, the team would work at packaging individual charges, measuring and cutting wire and color-coding it to correspond to various points on the span. Last, they would allot a certain amount of clay to each.
They had already done three dry runs on the bridge. With a stopwatch they’d gone from one cable connection to the next, allowing twenty seconds at each to plant the charges. Of course, during the workday they couldn’t do much more than walk from one spot to the next with a watch in their hands, but it gave them focus and a sense of timing. One part they couldn’t practice without drawing too much attention was the actual running of the wires to the individual charges. They had to be strung out of sight. The wires running to the charges on the upstream cable had to run under the roadway as well. Stringing them over the roadway would make them far too obvious. Earl had volunteered to be the one to cross beneath the roadway, the most dangerous task in the whole affair. Over the last couple of weeks he had taken every opportunity he could to hang from precarious positions while on the job.
“Gets my hands strong fer hangin’ off that beam,” he said, “and it gets my head used to the idea … stomach too. That’s the hard part,” he admitted. “It’s a long ways down. Real soberin’.” “Even when the head’s willin’ sometimes things start to flyin’ around in my gut, so’s I can barely set one foot before t’other. Gittin’ used to it, though. I’ll be all right come demolition time.”
Matt sensed there was another reason why Earl had stepped forward for that duty. Earl knew that Matt didn’t have the stomach for it. Whether it was Earl’s way of sparing his old friend a real hardship, or whether it was just because he knew he could perform the task quicker, Matt wasn’t sure. He was grateful Earl had volunteered either way.
Sullivan and Lincoln hadn’t been idle either. Careful measurements had been taken to estimate the amount of wire they’d need. They’d climbed the main cables, pacing off the distances while doing their jobs. They’d practiced clambering up the big cables as fast as they could go. They even made a race of it, amusing the others as they ran up the cables to the top and back down again. To the riggers it was a big game. To Pat and Jus it was valuable practice and deadly serious. They even practiced carrying packs loaded with a weight equal to the charges and wire they’d carry. They tried not to give much thought to what they were about to do.
Tom, Eli, Pat, and Charlie sat glumly in the back of the squad room. The chart they had started weeks before was not much more complete than when they’d begun. With the exception of Watkins’s box, with a big line now drawn through it, not much had changed. The box with the word “key” in it had lines extending to Bucklin, Watkins, and a box marked “trains.” Pat and Charlie had come up empty when they searched Lebeau’s and Emmons’s rooms. There was nothing concrete to tie the two to whatever was going on. There was no solid lines to those boxes.
Tom looked at the clipping with the article about the trains once more, skimming it again for anything he might have missed. He almost had it memorized. He knew all about the steam engines, the cable cars and tracks, their schedule, everything. It was badly frayed around the edges. A large coffee stain colored one corner. There had been hardly a day gone by over the last few weeks that he hadn’t thought of it. He kept it in his pocket, a constant reminder. More like a burr under his saddle, he thought.
“Been weeks now, boys, and I’m getting damn tired of reporting nothing to the chief,” Tom grumbled. “He hasn’t put much pressure on me but you know Byrnes. A wave of his cigar can say more than the Gettysburg Address. His patience has limits. We need to turn up something or we’re gonna find out where that limit is.”
Pat Dolan pulled at the corners of his mustache. “I don’t know. We’ve been staring at ledgers and contracts, invoices, bills of lading, accounts payable records, canceled checks, and a slew of other shit till the numbers are swimming on the page. Can’t put our fingers on a damn thing,” he said with a disp
irited shrug.
“What about the contractors these men might have come in contact with?” Tom asked, grasping for anything new to tell Byrnes.
“Mostly the three of them—Emmons, Lebeau, and Watkins—worked on the masonry. Never was any involvement with the trains. Lebeau and Emmons did work in the caissons years ago, but it didn’t seem to be worth the effort to go that far back. Whatever is going on is current, we figure,” Pat Dolan said.
“Could be. They were working in the caisson when the fire happened, though. That’s too damn coincidental for my taste,” Tom muttered as if talking to himself.
“Couple dozen others worked in the caisson at the time too. We’d have to track ’em all down. Besides, the fire marshal ruled it an accident.”
Tom gave a grudging grunt.
“Probably not worth the effort,” Jaffey added. Nobody disagreed.
“Things match up on the masonry contracts too,” Charlie said. “We went over the paperwork on the stone, brick, concrete, and paving, both at the bridge office and at the contractors. Nothing.” He threw up his hands. “It all looks legitimate.”
“We might be missing something,” Dolan said slowly, shaking his head, “but I don’t think so. Ain’t too many stones we left unturned.”
“Goddammit, there’s something missing.” Tom growled in the back of his throat. He was getting as frustrated as the rest. “We’re not looking in the right places … or asking the right questions,” he said for what seemed the hundredth time.
“I know,” Jaffey said. “Got the feeling it’s right in front of us but we just can’t see it.”
“Should’ve turned up something before this,” Charlie said with resignation. “I’m with you, Tom. Whatever’s going on has nothing to do with the things we’ve been checking.” His tone sounded as if he were closing the book on this phase. “Would have found it by now.”
Tom paced back and forth before his desk, hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched. “People are dead because of whatever the fuck is going on! Got to be something …” Tom almost pleaded as he crumpled some paper and tossed it in the general direction of the already overflowing wastebasket.
“There’s one thing, Tom,” Charlie said. It was clear from his tone that he hardly thought it worth bringing up.
“Well … hell, Charlie, spit it out so the whole class can hear it.”
“It’s nothing, really,” Charlie started slowly. “It’s just that when I was at Haigh’s, checking on their paperwork, I noticed that there was one other customer for a small batch of Crucible steel wire, just like they’re using on the bridge.”
“That’s it?” Tom asked.
“Well … I know it don’t sound like much, but Pat came up with the same name on an invoice at the Edgemoor Iron Works.” Charlie’s voice had the slightest inflection of hope.
Tom’s mouth twisted in an ironic grin. “That’s real exciting, Charlie.” There was silence in the little group around the desk. Heidelberg stared at Tom evenly, careful not to let his feelings get the better of him. Jaffey too gave Tom a small frown.
“Listen, Tom. Spare me the sarcasm, okay. We’re all frustrated here. Me and Pat been goin’ blind looking at fucking records. Not fun, in case you were wondering, and you’re not makin’ it any easier.” His voice rose as he went on.
Tom held up a hand. “Sorry, Charlie,” he said, patting the man’s shoulder in a silent peace offering. “You’re right. I owe you a beer.”
Charlie gave Braddock a sideways look and a small smile. “A big one, you bastard.”
Tom took away his hand like it had been on a hot stove but grinned his agreement.
“Okay,” Charlie went on. “The interesting thing is that in both cases the invoices were for the exact same kinds of items being used on the bridge. Difference is that the quantities were small.”
Jaffey broke in. “Somebody else building another bridge or something? I mean, this isn’t the only suspension bridge in the country, is it?”
“Don’t know. But even if it isn’t, the orders are way too small. It’s just a couple of spools of wire, cable, and one or two each of a bunch of other things, like roadway beams, brackets, flanges, couplings, all sorts of shit.”
Braddock grunted, deep in thought. “Probably nothing, but it should be checked,” he rumbled almost absently. “Nothing connected to the trains?” he asked, looking up hopefully.
“Sort of … in a way. One or two components were to the trusses running over the tracks,” Pat said, looking at his notes. “Going to Trenton tomorrow to check order books at the Roebling works. There’s another two or three suppliers we thought we’d check with too. Probably nothin’.” He shrugged.
Tom nodded. It probably was but it was the only “nothing” they had. “So who’s been placing orders for this stuff?”
“An outfit called Sangree & Co.,” Pat said, looking at his notes again. “Funny thing is that the invoices are going to an address on Water Street, but the delivery address is in Richmond, Virginia.”
Tom stopped his pacing and turned in his tracks, folding massive arms across his chest. “Now that is a curious fact, gentlemen.”
Mike knew what had happened as soon as he saw the wagon waiting at the curb in front of his building. Gramps had gone to see his da. He didn’t need the long faces of his neighbors to tell him. A small, curious band had gathered to watch the ambulance wagon and its tired horse as it dropped steaming turds on the cobbles. They watched the motionless wagon and horse as if they’d never seen the like before. As he pushed past, his school books tucked under one arm, there was much sad shaking of heads and clucking of tongues. A mournful murmur passed over like a cloud at his appearance. Mike wasn’t quite sure what they shook and clucked and murmured for. Though he’d miss his gramps, he knew that he was with the angels now. Being with the angels was probably a sight better than coughing up bits of your lungs day by day. Though he’d never seen an angel, he’d seen his gramps when he was sick. Being with the angels had to be better. In fact, it was bound to be better than anything on Suffolk Street. He’d trade the whole place to be able to see his da too. So Mike didn’t cry or carry on. He didn’t put on a show of tears for the morbid neighbors. They just wanted to see Gramps come out covered with a sheet. They wanted a reminder that no matter how shitty their lives were, someone else had it worse. Mike trudged up the dark stairs. He’d save his tears for Grandma.
The day had limped by like a three-legged dog. It was late now. Tom’s shift had been over for hours. He and Coffin sat in the library of August’s town house. The smell of leather-bound volumes and waxed mahogany gave the room a clubby, manly sort of warmth. It even seeped into Tom as he swirled a crystal glass of port. It had been a good day in one respect, with another fat envelope filling both their pockets. Tom had to force himself to say what he did next though.
“You know, August, I want to thank you for helping Mary. She’s doing pretty well now, and she’s had not a peep of trouble from Parker or anyone else at the Sixteenth.” Tom almost chocked saying it but in a way it was true.
“Oh, think nothing of it, Tom,” Coffin said, waving a dismissive hand with a smile that seemed genuine enough. “Happy to be of assistance. Always liked Mary myself, so full of life and fire. You’re a lucky man.” At times August could be disarmingly charming, thoughtful even. Braddock tried to keep that in mind.
“I know it, August. I’ve got to take better care of her, though, if I want to keep her.”
“Can’t blame yourself, Tommy,” Coffin said, shaking his head. “You can’t be there every minute. She’s in a business that’s prone to certain risks. She knows that. I think she’s tougher than you give her credit for.”
“She’s hard when she has to be, I’ll give her that, practical too,” Tom said truthfully. “Doesn’t hold a grudge. Doesn’t believe in it. Just gets on with business. She’s not one to worry much on things she can’t change.”
“A very practical outlook, Tom. It would seem latel
y that you’ve taken a page from her book.” Coffin pointed a finger across his desk at Tom. “It’s a more productive way of looking at things.”
Tom smiled inside. Let Coffin think what he wanted about his acceptance of the new order, he figured. “I’ve got to admit, the last couple of weeks have gone a long way toward convincing me of that. Frees more time to work on the things you can change too,” Tom said without inflection, wondering as soon as he’d said it if he’d hinted at too much. He reminded himself to be more careful.
Coffin sat back in his tufted leather chair with a self-satisfied grin. If he’d caught the double meaning in Tom’s words, it didn’t show. He smiled warmly across his desk. It was a genuine smile, as genuine as he was capable of.
“We’re going to do very well together, Tom,” Coffin said at last. “The money’s been good, right?”
“Very good,” Tom admitted.
Coffin beamed, like a magician about to pull off an impossible trick. “It can be better,” he said, leaning forward.
Tom’s eyebrows arched in interest but his jaw tensed all the same. “I was never against making money, August. One of my favorite things,” he said honestly. Still, he felt the need to add, “You know how I feel about some things, though, August. That hasn’t changed. There’s some money we shouldn’t take, some people we shouldn’t protect.”
They grinned at each other across the desk, each putting his own gloss on their recent troubles. Coffin’s smile had a waxy quality, as if it had been painted there. The look passed quickly, a rogue thunderhead on a sunny day.
Suspension Page 41
